Crash Course in Third-World Reality

Skip the B.S.

“As I was reaching for my water bottle, Quintino asked, ‘So what brings you to CP? Or as some Americans say, ‘What’s in it for you?”’ ‘Very simple,’ I said, ‘it’s the stories.’ ‘The stories?’ ‘Absolutely. I’ve asked myself that question several times since I started coming to Laura’s sessions about 15 years ago post-retirement in 2007, and I keep coming up with the same answer. Last year, I worked with a lovely young woman, a doctoral student in chemistry, from Sri Lanka. She grew up in Columbo, the capital, but her grandparents owned a coconut plantation in the hills where she spent the summers, despite the danger.’ ‘What danger?’ Quintino wondered. ‘The recent civil war?’ ‘No, the monkeys. They sit in the trees, as she told me, and throw coconuts at anyone in their territory. One of her grandparents’ hired hands had died when he was stuck in the head by a flung coconut.’”—Skip Eisiminger

By Skip Eisiminger

“Immigration is the sincerest form of flattery.”—Jack Paar

“Emigration is the sincerest form of scorn.”—The Wordspinner

CLEMSON South Carolina—(Hubris)—March/April 2026—After arriving early for Wednesday’s “Conversation Partners,” I took a seat and waited for Laura to unlock the door to the library classroom. I’m often early, but why the librarians lock that door is still a mystery—there’s nothing in there but a dusty computer, tables, and chairs. If someone did steal something, he’d have to haul it up four flights of stairs and past a security guard. After my latest conversation, however, I realized that the librarians are quietly “guarding” the stories told in their “parlor”—the place Clemson University’s international students come to practice their English and talk of home.

It wasn’t long before Laura showed up with the key and a young man I’d never seen before. From his dress, proud bearing, and skin color, I guessed he was African, and I soon learned I was right. Quintino Cabral, his mother’s fifth child, was from Guinea-Bissau, a former Portuguese colony on the West Coast of Africa. While Laura was unpacking her bookbag and other students were wandering in, I began a conversation with my new partner that lasted 90 minutes in the library and 15 more in the car when I drove him the three miles he was going to walk to his apartment in 95° heat in cracked leather sandals. Quintino, I learned, is 35; is working toward a PhD in Environmental Studies; hopes to do research back home one day; and is fluent in French, Portuguese, English, and a dialect I’d never heard of (one of about 30 spoken in Guinea-Bissau). He’s engaged to Anna, a law student he met in Morocco, is homesick, runs twelve miles a day, and was circumcised at age 16.

“Interesting,” I told him, “but it’s not something two American men are likely to discuss on a first date.” 

After I explained “date,” he said male circumcision is held in high regard in Guinea-Bissau, and some men must wait until they are in their 30s before the chief declares them suitable to join the tribe’s elders. He was honored to have been chosen so early in life. His good grades, he thinks, athletic success, and the scholarship he’d won helped persuade the chief. He said he’d been “cut” in a clinic with sterilized instruments, not in the forest like “the traditionalists.” Regardless of where the surgery is done, he said, the ceremony profoundly changes a man: once he dons the red wool hat, the sign of his circumcision and his tribe’s acceptance, he usually settles down, finds a job, and marries.

I asked if his father was circumcised. “Of course,” he said. “He had four wives, around 30 children, and died at 101. I was his youngest. Mother is also dead, but she died a Christian. I’m Christian, too, unlike my father, who remained an animist all his life. Mother and I tried our best to convert him with no success. He could be very stubborn. Are you Christian?” he suddenly wondered.

“I’m a lapsed Presbyterian,” I said, “but I hold Jesus in the highest regard despite what he did to the money changers. Paul, not so much. I guess you’d call me an eclectic.”

“What is an ‘eclectic’?”

“I’m a mixed bag. You know, a few jellybeans, a few raisins, a few cashews all poured in and shaken up in one bag.”

“Ah, cashews! Guinea-Bissau would be listed as the world’s third largest producer, but India and other crooks buy our nuts and market them as ‘Grown in India.’ But I think I understand your analogy. My mother was eclectic; she grew up animist, converted to Christianity at my urging, but never gave up some animist rituals.”

“I’m not familiar with animism,” I said, hoping to extend this line of inquiry. “Did your mother worship animals the way ancient Egyptians worshipped cats?”

“Oh, no—that’s a common misperception. She believed that every material object, living or dead, has (note the present tense), a spirit. ‘Anim-’ comes from the Latin and means ‘spirit’—I’m surprised you as an English professor didn’t know that.”

“I’ve been put in my place more than once by my international students,” I said. “I recall a young man from Nigeria teaching me the word ‘consanguinity’ in front of 35 grinning American juniors. This fellow from Lagos had had six years of Latin and two of New Testament Greek while studying for the priesthood—that was four more years of Latin than I’d had. My Greek consists of a few roots and the alphabet.”

As I was reaching for my water bottle, Quintino asked, “So what brings you to CP? Or as some Americans say, ‘What’s in it for you?’”

“Very simple,” I said, “it’s the stories.”

“The stories?”

“Absolutely. I’ve asked myself that question several times since I started coming to Laura’s sessions about 15 years ago post-retirement in 2007, and I keep coming up with the same answer. Last year, I worked with a lovely young woman, a doctoral student in chemistry, from Sri Lanka. She grew up in Columbo, the capital, but her grandparents owned a coconut plantation in the hills where she spent the summers, despite the danger.”

“What danger?” Quintino wondered. “The recent civil war?”

“No, the monkeys. They sit in the trees, as she told me, and throw coconuts at anyone in their territory. One of her grandparents’ hired hands had died when he was stuck in the head by a flung coconut.”

“I know a great deal about monkeys,” Quintino said.

“I’m sure you do,” I said and hastened back to my story. “My student also told me about the elephants.”

“There are very few elephants in Guinea-Bissau; they are farther east. I saw my first elephant in a zoo in Rabat.”

“Once, my student,” I continued, “saw a herd of elephants walking up a slope near her grandparents’ plantation. She thought it strange, so she asked her grandmother, who recognized this behavior at once—‘There’s a terrible wave coming,’ she said. And within minutes, the tsunami that devastated the Indian Ocean region in 2004 struck the coast. Colombo was spared, but thousands across the region died.”

At about that time, Laura said time was up and wished everyone a good week. I had scarcely noticed the time or the others in the room.

Turning to Quintino, I said, “It’s bloody hot today. May I give you a lift?”

“What is a lift?”

“In your case, my friend, it’s a ride home.”

“I would love a lift,” he said. “The bus is free, but it doesn’t lift me, as you say,” playing with the word he’d just learned.

On the way to his apartment, I noticed a fortune cookie on the console that a Chinese server had given me a few days earlier. I asked Quintino if he’d like to have it. “Only if it doesn’t have a lot of sugar,” he said. “I’m trying to cut back on my sugar.”

I said, “There might be some sugar but not much.” With that, he tore open the cellophane wrapper and bit down with a satisfying crunch. I suspect he was hungry. A short while later, when the traffic thinned, I asked, “Is it too sweet?”

“No.”

“Good. So, what’s your fortune?”

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you read your fortune in the cookie?”

“No, I ate—oh, here it is,” and he spat out a wad of paper too mangled to read. I apologized, saying it had never crossed my mind to warn him, and he graciously said, “I’ve eaten much worse. Have you ever eaten a bad cashew—cashews are our leading export.”

Eager to change the subject, I asked if he had a car. “I have a license but no car,” he said. “I had a bicycle years ago, but I was nearly killed by a bus in Bissau. I took that as a sign from God, sold my bike, and have ridden busses ever since.”

“Smart,” I said.

“Thank you.”

“I assume you have a Master’s degree given that you’re working on your PhD—what field is that in?” 

“Geology. I figured I could help with the continent-wide problem of phosphate run-off. That was the subject of my Master’s thesis. I can’t wait to return home, marry, and further test some of my ideas.”

“When I think of geology in Africa,” I said, “I think of gold, oil, and blood diamonds. Does Guinea-Bissau have any of those?”

“Fortunately, and unfortunately, we do not. Blood diamonds are well named.”

“Is your country rich in anything?”

“Cashews and monkeys—the forests and parks are full of them. Before I moved to Morocco, the only meat besides fish I’d ever eaten was bush meat.”

“What’s bush meat?”

“In my case, monkey meat. From an early age, I would go into the forest with a stick, a bag of rocks, and our dog. If my friends and I were lucky, the dog would tree a monkey. Then we’d throw stones until we knocked the animal from the tree. If it was still alive, we’d beat it to death with our sticks and carry it home to be skinned and boiled.”

“Have you ever considered becoming a vegan?” I asked. “I’m kidding. I had a Big Mac for lunch.”

“My right as a human being to eat meat is inalienable,” Quintino said. “I learned that word this morning on my phone. It’s Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Day.”

“Here’s another one for you: did you feel those speed bumps we just crossed? They’re also called ‘sleeping policemen.’”

“I love that and will remember it. Ask me again next week.”

“One way or another, Mr. Cabral, you should go far in this world.”

The following week, Quintino was waiting for me at the library door.